From behind a door, walking down a street, who are they?

They wander around, they look without a friendly sound.

With paper and pen, not a friend as they may smile but pretend,

Watched you are as you walk, speak, examined over a way you dress.

Judge me with your thoughts but what is there to see in you?

I am judged by those whom I never again see, strangers, some family.

Judgment has a face, not the same as it changes from day to place,

We are judged with the rotation of our world, travels with the wind.

Keith Garrett

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